


I'm a penny in a diamond mine

by blackkat



Series: Jon Antilles prompts [15]
Category: Star Wars: Republic (Comics), Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, First Meeting, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “I thought I’d find you here,” Plo says peaceably, settling into the seat beside him and placing a datapad on the table. “What a nice view.”Wolffe doesn’t look up, just keeps cleaning his blaster. It’s already clean, but—this is a ritual more than it’s a necessary task. Once a day, every day, he drags it up here to clean it, and the Jedi who tend the gardens are polite enough to pretend that it’s normal.“Good light,” he says.
Relationships: CC-3636 | Wolffe/Jon Antilles, Plo Koon & CC-3636 | Wolffe
Series: Jon Antilles prompts [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941646
Comments: 29
Kudos: 716





	I'm a penny in a diamond mine

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Jon/Wolffe and the war was over and a lot of clones didn't know what to do with themselves. When Plo told Wolffe to go to this cantina because he might find something interesting he wasn't expecting a Jedi to be tossed onto his table. Yeah, his General knew him pretty well, didn't he. A good brawl might be nice, especially if there was a purpose behind it. And this guy looked tired but determined, so there must be a pretty good one just asking for an old clone's gun hand.

The scrape of a chair being pulled out next to him isn't quite the surprise it probably should be.

It’s not that Wolffe has been expecting this so much as dreading it. Assuming, quietly and unhappily, that it would be coming sooner rather than later now that the war is a full year over, most of his brothers settling into their roles in the Republic as it slowly, carefully restructures itself. A big chunk of them are just citizens now, founding new colonies or settling into existing ones. The GAR is still around, but it’s smaller, left to the truly devoted, and after everything—

Well. Wolffe doesn’t know _what_ he’s devoted to.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Plo says peaceably, settling into the seat beside him and placing a datapad on the table. “What a nice view.”

Wolffe doesn’t look up, just keeps cleaning his blaster. It’s already clean, but—this is a ritual more than it’s a necessary task. Once a day, every day, he drags it up here to clean it, and the Jedi who tend the gardens are polite enough to pretend that it’s normal.

“Good light,” he says.

Plo hums. “Ah, yes. There was a painting class up here, once.” He’s quiet for a moment, and Wolffe can hear the click of his claw-covers tapping the stone of the small table. It’s a reminder that makes Wolffe want to twitch, though; the Jedi Temple is a peaceful place, determinedly so. All the traces of the war here are being buffed out, smoothed over to let life go back to normal. Or, well. As normal as things can be, after the near-collapse of the Republic.

They’ll probably get back to those painting classes soon. And Wolffe is glad for them, but—he’ll have to find somewhere else to go, then.

Maybe Plo reads that in his face, or maybe in his emotions. There's a low, soft sound, and Plo's hand curls over his shoulder, the pressure of the claws familiar and welcome. Wolffe has to close his eyes, has to lean into the touch, and—Plo isn't his general any more, won't ever be again, but he _was_ , and that still means everything to Wolffe.

“Forgive me, Wolffe,” he says softly, and Wolffe finally raises his head, finally looks up at him. Plo looks tired, but his expression is warm, and the weight of his grip eases something that’s been coiled tight and angry around Wolffe’s spine for almost a full year now. “I don’t mean to intrude, and you will never not be welcome, but—Temple life doesn’t suit you, does it?”

Wolffe’s throat closes, and his hands tighten around the blaster. It’s not, he knows, a rejection. It’s not Plo judging him for his inability to let go, to ease back from the war that’s still raging around him, even if it seems to have stopped for everyone else. There’s nothing but kindness and sympathy in Plo's voice, and if Wolffe stands up and walks away right now, Plo will never bring it up again. That’s how it’s always been. But—

He’s right, and Wolffe hates it.

“You're not about to sign me up for a painting class, are you, General?” he asks, dry, and then stops short. Closes his mouth, swallows, and looks away from Plo. Corrects, roughly, “Master.”

Wolffe knows better than anyone the relief that Plo felt when he could step back fully into his role as a Jedi, leaving his military titles behind him. Still, there’s no reaction to Wolffe’s slip, and his expression stays perfectly peaceful as he chuckles softly.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he says lightly, and pats Wolffe on the shoulder. “Did you hear Sinker and Boost signed up as guards for a freight company based on Metellos? They seemed quite happy with the choice.”

Boost and Sinker want to see the galaxy as more than just parts of the army, so it suits them. They're the last of the Wolfpack to decide, though, and Wolffe’s throat feels tight, even though he got the news this morning, already knew. “They’ll do fine,” he says, but it rasps uncomfortably.

Plo smiles, eyes crinkling enough to see past the edges of his goggles. “They will,” he agrees. Pauses, watching Wolffe with a gaze that’s just a little too sharp, and says, “And you, Wolffe?”

Wolffe snorts, and it’s tempting to dodge the question, to misdirect, but—it’s Plo. By now, he probably at least owes him an honest answer.

“It’s a job,” he says. “I want…”

“A calling,” Plo says, and his deep voice is fond. “You are a man who needs to believe in the work he does.”

Wolffe isn't sure. All he knows is that something like guarding cargo ships would drive him insane within a few weeks.

“I don’t know,” he says, short, frustrated, and sets the blaster carefully on the table. “I don’t—there's nothing on Coruscant for me.” Nothing except Plo, and Wolffe isn't about to say that out loud. Plo knows already, anyway. And—he’s a tie, but he’s not a _tether_ , and that’s enough to know. Wolffe has been thinking about things for a full year now, ever since the war ended and the GAR was officially downsized, and he still hasn’t found an answer.

Plo cocks his head, watching him. “Maybe not,” he allows, sounding amused. “You're looking for excitement, and there's certainly very little of that in the Temple. We try our best to keep it that way.”

Wolffe snorts, because there are hundreds of Force-sensitive younglings in the lower levels; as long as they're around, there will always be _some_ level of excitement in the Temple. But—it’s not the kind Wolffe is used to, certainly.

“There's not a lot of excitement in general anymore,” he says, maybe the faintest bit bitter about it. He doesn’t want there to be another war. That’s the last thing he’s looking for. But right now, it feels like he’s sliding down an impossibly steep slope, with no bottom on the horizon and no way to haul himself back up.

Wolffe _hates_ it. After the war was supposed to be everything they ever wanted, and yet.

Plo is still watching him, still quiet, still sympathetic. After a long moment, he taps his claws against the table again, then reaches for the datapad he brought. A quick tap brings it to life, and he hands it over to Wolffe, smiling.

“A gift,” he says lightly. “With something interesting at the end of your journey. Or perhaps at the start of your journey.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes, because that’s the most aggravatingly Jedi statement he’s ever heard, but glances at the pad. There are tickets booked on a passenger ship for tomorrow, all the way to the Outer Rim, with the destination some little dustball planet he’s never heard of. There are even arrangements for lodgings at an inn there, and directions to what must be a business somewhere in the port town.

Raising a brow, Wolffe looks from the pad to Plo, and asks, “What is this, exactly?”

Plo chuckles, rising to his feet. “A chance to find a calling,” he says cheerfully, and grips Wolffe’s shoulder for one more moment. When he pulls back, he offers a hand, and Wolffe reaches out, grips his forearm like he would another clone’s, and tries to think of something to say.

There's nothing, though. Wolffe can't thing of a single karking word.

Plo doesn’t need any, though. He grips Wolffe’s forearm for a long moment, then lets go and steps away, and Wolffe listens to his steps retreat across the rooftop. A moment later, they vanish, and Wolffe looks down at the pad again, checking the departure time, the dock, the route he’ll need to get there.

Twenty-nine hours before it leaves. It’s a deadline counting down, a set time before which Wolffe will have to make a decision, but—

The pressure is familiar, and Wolffe can breathe easier under it than he could without it. A straightforward choice, a plan of attack, a time he’ll have to make it by—those are all familiar things.

Wolffe can work with that.

The fact that Plo's directions lead Wolffe to the seediest cantina in the whole town isn't even enough to make Wolffe blink. He’s met a lot of Plo's shadier contacts, pirates and mercenaries and bounty hunters alike, and he knows full-well that Plo isn't exactly the perfectly straight-laced Jedi Master he comports himself as. His contacts probably don’t outnumber Kenobi's, but—it’s likely a close thing, and this cantina is exactly the sort of place he normally goes to meet them.

Wolffe doesn’t see any familiar faces in the crowd, though. If whoever he’s here to meet is someone he knows, they're keeping a low profile. It’s possible; the cantina is crowded, and the music is loud, and Wolffe managed to grab a table to himself but it doesn’t have the best lines of sight. He’s not about to get up and move, either. There are some people in the mix who are definitely dangerous, and tensions have been rising all night.

At the very least, Wolffe’s not the only one keeping out of things. There's a man at the bar, wrapped entirely in a heavy cloak, and he hasn’t moved in at least an hour except to ask for a refill. Even as voices rise to a threatening pitch behind him, he stays slumped where he is, and Wolffe admires the stubbornness.

With a flicker of self-directed amusement, Wolffe sinks back in his chair, swirling his drink around the dingy glass. He’s not intending to drink it, but it’s better to look like he has a reason to be—

There's a bellow, a crash, a _thud_. A body hits the ground like a sack of rocks, and instantly several of the occupants of the cantina pull weapons and lunge. One man goes flying, and another gets tossed right into the bar itself, making the Twi’lek woman there shriek with fury. The offending patron staggers to his feet, cloak shedding bits of glass, and Wolffe raises a brow. It’s the lurker who’s been waiting since before Wolffe arrived, and clearly he’s not waiting anymore. He throws himself back into the fight that’s rapidly turning into a brawl, plowing his way through like he’s trying to reach the fallen man who was the first victim, and Wolffe frowns, debates getting up and going to help.

After a moment, though, he doesn’t. A barfight isn't kind of excitement he came out here looking for, and Plo would have known that. This is just—

A big bruiser of a Togruta woman shouts, and suddenly the cloaked man is airborne. Wolffe has just enough time to judge his trajectory and wrench his drink out of the way before a body crashes down right in the middle of his table, splintering wood and sending up a wash of the planet’s thick red dust. Wolffe curses, coughing, and jerks to his feet, ready to yell.

And then he catches a glimpse of the weapon clipped to the man’s belt and freezes solid.

It’s a _lightsaber_. The hilt looks heavy, and Wolffe can't quite tell if it’s made of wood or stone, but it’s unmistakable. No Jedi robes, no signs of the Order otherwise, but the man groans, hauls himself out of the ruins of Wolffe’s table and staggers a step, and—

It’s purely an automatic response, that Wolffe takes a step forward and catches his elbow. The fight is growing, getting louder, but Wolffe still hauls him back, ignores the twitch it gets him, and says, “You're a Knight.”

The man’s head turns, and his eyes are wolf-pale, his hood halfway to sliding off. He looks just as startled to see Wolffe out here and Wolffe is to see him, and he hesitates.

“Master,” he says finally, like it’s an admission and a challenge all wrapped into one.

Wolffe frowns; Jedi Masters made general during the war, without exception, and Wolffe knows at least most of them by sight, has heard of the rest. This man doesn’t strike him as familiar, though, and Wolffe _definitely_ hasn’t seen him in the Temple. He would have remembered.

Still, that’s hardly the most pressing matter right now.

“Need a hand?” he asks.

The Jedi's eyes flicker from Wolffe’s face to the blaster and vibroblade in clear view on his belt, and his mouth curves. That looks like a challenge, too.

“Think you can hold them off, trooper?” he asks, but there's no trace of condescension to it. Just tired humor, and Wolffe snorts.

“Target?” he asks.

The Jedi turns back to the fight, and his hands curl into fists. “Man on the floor,” he says. “He’s carrying datachips with information about clones taken from the battlefield by slavers.”

Fury settles hot and heavy on Wolffe’s spine. He knows vultures like that, knows just how many brothers were reported missing in action because of them. If this Jedi is trying to find them, Wolffe’s not going to let him out of his sight.

Apparently Plo knows him well. Wolffe isn't about to argue, if this is the result.

“Got it,” he says grimly, and draws the vibroblade. “I’ll cover you.”

The flash of the Jedi's smile is all teeth, stubborn as stone. “Keep up,” he says, and throws himself back in, quick and deft. A fighter, elegant and deadly, even more than most Jedi, and Wolffe feels something give a precise turn in his chest as he watches the Jedi lay out a Besalisk with three brutal blows. That’s—impressive.

Maybe, he thinks wryly as he wades in after, Plo knows him a little _too_ well.

“I thought it was a _rescue_ , not a robbery,” Wolffe says, maybe a little punch-drunk, as he staggers down the street towards his inn. The Jedi is leaning heavily on his shoulder, and Wolffe hasn’t felt this battered since the last battle of the war.

His heart is pounding, though, and his adrenaline is singing, and he feels like he could almost laugh, even with the pain of a blackening eye radiating hot across his face. He feels more alive now than he has in a solid year, and it aches in all the best ways.

The Jedi's laughter is as soft as a breath, rough and winded, but his smile is still teeth and ferocity. Seeing it makes Wolffe’s chest feel just as hot as his face, and he wants—

Something. For the first time in a year, though, he knows what that something is.

“I asked nicely,” the Jedi says, and Wolffe barks out an incredulous laugh.

“That the nicest you get, Jedi?” he asks, because the Rodian they dragged outside the cantina and shook down for datachips is probably going to have nightmares for at least a month. Just a messenger, but—given what he was carrying, Wolffe isn't inclined to feel merciful.

“It’s Jon,” the Jedi says, and casts Wolffe a look. His hood is off, his dark hair falling loose from its short tail, and his lip is bleeding, blood smeared bright red across his face like a warning sign. “And I guess you’ll find out.”

“Wolffe. And is that an invitation?” Wolffe asks, even though he doesn’t give a damn if he’s been invited or not; he’s coming along, and Jon can't stop him.

“My ship’s in the port,” Jon says, which is answer enough, but his glance is all sharp edges, a dark sort of intent. Wolffe is used to Jedi who are composed and careful or wild and reckless, but Jon is something else entirely. He’s _dangerous_ , no part of him filed down to fit in with society, and Wolffe likes it. He _wants_ it.

One step, another, and Wolffe turns, unable to resist. Shoves Jon up against the wall of the closest building, and Jon _lets_ him, even though there's a predator in his too-pale eyes. He grabs Wolffe’s wrists as Wolffe presses him up into the duracrete, and he’s almost pulling him closer. Almost _daring_ him, and Wolffe growls low in his throat, still high on the adrenaline from the fight.

“I said,” he tells Jon, low, “is that an invitation?”

Jon snorts, but he drags Wolffe in, fingers brushing the scar on his face. There are enough on his own face that Wolffe doesn’t even feel a flicker of self-consciousness, and—maybe that’s a relief he didn’t know he needed, that sheer awareness that he’s with someone just as battered and stubborn as he is.

“Yes,” Jon says, soft, intent, and Wolffe shoves his up against the stone, kisses the sharpness of his mouth, and feels like, for the first time in a year, his feet have finally stopped slipping.

He’ll have to remember to thank Plo the next time he sees him, but with any luck at all, it won't be any time soon.


End file.
